Complaints

            Should I complain about the crabgrass that has taken over my lawn in this hot and wet weather, when most people don’t even have lawns?

            Should I complain about the goose poop on my golf course’s fairways, when the only fairways most people ever see is on television?

            Should I complain about having to take out the trash in the rain, when people in some countries go through trash dumps to find enough food to survive another day?

            Should I complain about the tick that gave me this disease I can’t even pronounce, when so many children die because they don’t have access to health care?

            Should I complain about growing old, when so many victims of violence will never get to be my age?

            I’ve been blessed with a long life and reasonably good health—ticks notwithstanding. I’ve never known real hunger or been without a roof over my head. I’ve been so lucky to have had had my wife and best friend by my side for over a half-century and for us to now enjoy playing patriarch and matriarch to our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

            Life has been good to me, so I shouldn’t complain. At least not about crabgrass, geese, and ticks. But I will never stop complaining about those hypocrites and buffoons in Washington who are doing their best to ruin the greatest country in the world. One side controls both houses of Congress and the Presidency, but can’t get anything done. They stand in a firing-squad circle, as one wag put it, while the “Just Say No” Democrats cheer at the mutual executions.

            At a recent Mets baseball game, New Jersey’s Chris Christie, perhaps the most unpopular governor on the planet, was sitting in the third row when he caught a foul ball. The crowd booed lustily. Had they been sitting in the Senate gallery when Republicans self-immolated, the Mets crowd would have given them the same well-deserved treatment.